


Food for Thought

by Ruahnna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruahnna/pseuds/Ruahnna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Sherlock (BBC): Food for Thought<br/>Rating: Gen<br/>Genre/Relationship: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes<br/>Spoilers: None, really<br/>Word Count: 5,353<br/>Summary:  Why is John being nice to Sherlock after he’s been such an arsehole?  After a little food, and some food for thought, Sherlock unlocks the mystery and discovers things about human nature that had always eluded him before.<br/>A/N:  With gratitude to the creators of BBC's Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Food for Thought

**Food for Thought**

      “Is there anything to eat?”

      John looked up from the newspaper balanced on his knee.  Sherlock had been an unmoving, inert lump for so long John had stopped expecting him to respond to questions, much less _ask_ them.

      “Short answer—yes.  Were you asking if there was food in the flat, or if there's anything prepared?”

      Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it.

      John raised his eyebrows and waited.  He was good at it.

      “What day is it?”

      “Thursday,” John answered, then added, “The 20th,” just to be sure he'd covered all bases.

      “Yes, I _do_ know what month it is,” Sherlock said coolly, flashing petulant eyes at his flat mate.  But John didn't notice.  He'd stepped around to the kitchen and was pouring a cup of coffee.

      Out of his fugue, open again to what was happening around him, Sherlock inhaled the scent greedily but was too proud to ask after being snappish.  His eyes narrowed as he watched John stir in two spoonsful of sugar and then his face relaxed into a smile.

      “Thank you,” he said when John handed it to him.  “Thank you” wasn't tantamount to admitting he'd been an arse, that he _was_ an arse.  He sipped his coffee, which was perfect, exactly the way he liked it.  His eyes narrowed again, taking in data.

      “I'm making an omelet,” John said.  Sherlock looked at him suspiciously.  There were multiple ways to respond—17 occurred to him immediately—but before he had soused them out and picked one, he saw John pull six eggs out of the carton and realized no response was necessary.  Real butter sizzled in the skillet, making his mouth water.  He sipped his coffee and tried not to drool.

      “Shower.”  It was not a question.  Sherlock sniffed his sleeve and shot up off the couch in a quick, fluid movement, covering the steps to the bathroom in four long strides.  The door banged behind him and John heard the water start to run.

      Standing under the scalding spray, Sherlock scrubbed and thought.  At least he couldn't smell the food in here with the water pouring over his head.  He tried to puzzle it all out, tried to make sense of the coffee, the food.

      John was far more domestic that he was.  At least, he was far more regular in his domestic habits, but who wasn't?  Still, John made his own bed, washed his own clothes (and frequently Sherlock's) and seemed to prepare and consume food on a semi-regular basis.  He packed his lunch—that working class frugality was deeply ingrained—changed his toothbrush with appalling regularity and even tidied up the living area when it got to be too much.  The lab equipment he had learned to ignore or work around—the first time he'd interfered with one of Sherlock's experiments had led to rather a loud row (loud on both sides), and there now seemed to be a collection of TV trays upon which to eat when one did not wish to bother with setting a real table, which was pretty much...always.  The first time they'd eaten at a really nice restaurant, he was aware of John watching him with interest as he worked his way through the silverware.

      “The fact that I have good table manners is not my fault,” he had muttered sulkily, and though John had said nothing, a muscle had jumped in his cheek and Sherlock could tell he was amused.

      “You'll have to add it to the list,” John said dryly, but that was all.

      Why was John being nice to him?  He was sure—he was _quite_ sure that he'd been rather appalling earlier, and he was _quite sure_ because John had _told_ him in that clipped, furious way of his.  The Case of the Missing Key Fob, (God, _he_ was doing it now— _naming_ the damn things) while completely inconsequential, had stymied him into a funk of bad manners, and _apparently_ you weren't _allowed_ to use your bad manners with little old men who had asked for your help.  John had supplied the manners part—that _was_ part of why he'd come, after all—but things had been stiff after that.  The cab ride home had been rather unpleasant, but then he'd never been good at _chatting_.

      That was some days ago—three to be exact, and he'd come in, dropped onto the couch and...disappeared inside his own head, his “mind palace.”  Mycroft was being an effluviant orifice—well, the man _defined_ the term, didn't he?—but they'd “traded favors,” as John had once called it and he'd put the key fob mystery and Mycroft's three puzzles into the mix to simmer.  Trading favors, hah!  These things with Mycroft always had the shape and feel of hostage exchanges.  Speaking of hostages....

      He wondered if he had any clean clothes.  Probably not, since he'd been a complete git.  At least, John had so indicated in the short space of time they'd actually been talking in the taxi.  So _why_ was John making food?

      Well, John was _nice_ , wasn't he?  Perhaps not in the classical sense—John could be _very_ un-nice with his revolver in his hand, and he had been very un-nice when they were back-to-back against a field of toughs a couple of capers ago, and he was un-nice when complaining about the...well, that wasn't strictly true.  John was even nice when complaining about, urm, all the things he seemed to find objectionable about sharing a flat with someone as difficult and unsocialized as....  But _why_ was John being nice _now_?

      He shampooed his hair—once, of course, since twice was completely unnecessary and a ruse to convince ignorant people to use up their supply of personal grooming product twice as fast—shaved by feel without looking at his face and banged out of the bathroom without bothering to dry off. The smell of sausages and hot bread tortured him as he dashed into his room.  He wondered if John would let him eat wrapped in his bedsheet?  The last time he'd come to the table less than fully dressed, John had almost sprayed him with a mouthful of cranberry juice, although he’d managed not to choke.

      “Clothes.  _Now_.”

      “I don't understand what the problem is,” Sherlock had objected.  “If it was good enough for The Queen—“

      “ _I_ am _not_ the bloody _Queen_.”

      “So you keep telling Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, but he _was_ brilliant, so he knew enough to _run_ after he did.  If John hadn't murdered him _then_....

      “GO!” John had bellowed, pointing.  Sherlock had stomped down the hall and returned wearing his best bespoke suit, a silk tie and a shirt that John had never seen before.

      “The diamond cufflinks are a nice touch,” John muttered.  “ _When_ did you get a shirt with French cuffs?”

      “Mummy,” Sherlock had huffed, and eaten his chicken parmesan with impeccable fashion sense.  If he’d hoped to annoy John by being overdressed—and he _had—_ it didn’t work, and John had eaten his own dinner in denim-clad comfort.

      Remembering, Sherlock pulled up short and stared.  There were clean clothes on the end of his bed.  He had done things, when ruminating on a case, things that he’d been quite unaware of, but laundry was certainly not one of those things, so….  Deduction:  John had done laundry.  More specifically, John had done _his_ laundry.  _Why_?  Whywhywhywhywhy?

      It could be a peace offering, but then, it really  _couldn’t_ be, either.   _He_ had been the offender—at least, according to John.  If he understood the concept—and it had been a new one to him, having never made peace with anyone before—after a row, friends sometimes did little things for each other, little  _nice_ things for each other, in order to reestablish their intention to remain on good terms with each other.  He could still remember John’s incredulity, then the halting, awkward way John had explained it to him.  The first time they had argued ( _not_ about the test tubes on the kitchen table), he had been both surprised and suspicious of John’s attempts to smooth things over.  He himself tended to ignore unpleasantness that had happened, but this wasn’t quite the same.  While his roommate had not referred to the argument or the specifics of it, John made a noticeable attempt to make himself agreeable, to not chide, to not complain and to turn the conversation in directions that Sherlock liked best. 

      “What are you doing?” he had demanded, eyes narrowed.

      “I don’t really know,” John had sighed, with just a touch of longsuffering.  “Sometimes, I have no idea what I’m about here.”

      “Yes, yes,” Sherlock had huffed, waving a hand.  “I get that it’s a philosophical debate, but I meant…what are you doing now?  _Right_ now?”

      “I’m reading the paper.”

      “Not what I meant.”

      “Of course not,” John had muttered, and scrubbed his face with his hand before putting on an expression of patient attention.  “Ask your question again, please.”

      The “please” both baffled and annoyed him, and his eyes narrowed.  “You’re _not_ just reading the paper,” he’d accused.  “You’ve skipped right over the sports section, which _you_ like and I _don’t_ , and you’re reading out the bits you think I’ll be interested in.”

      “Brilliant deduction,” John had said, and though it was said gently, John’s eyes glittered with a warning that starting another argument would _not_ be a good use of time.

      “You usually read the sports section.”

      “Only when I’m trying to avoid conversation.”  He did not add “with you,” as it was both obvious and unnecessary.  Still, Sherlock had blinked.  He had made the first deduction, but the second had not occurred to him before.  Something in John’s face made it occur now and he thought back through all the times John had retreated into the sports section….  Hmm.  He _had_ noticed, apparently, but hadn’t put the bits together.  Sherlock did not know it, but at the moment, his own train of thought was as obvious to John as most other people’s thoughts were to him.

      “I’m trying to make peace,” John had said, trying to soften it a little.

      Sherlock had stared at him owlishly. “Peace?  Exactly _who_ are you at war _with_?”

      “With _you_!” John had cried.  “Oh for heaven’s sake—”

      “We are _not_ at war,” Sherlock had said after a moment, confusion clouding his face.  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

      “Well, we had a…a fight earlier.  You were being…. _you_ , and my temper got the best of me.”

      “Yes it did.  And you said some—“

      “I know what I said!” John had snapped, then got a hold of himself.  “I…Sherlock, I know what I said, but I was angry.”  A muscle jumped in John’s jaw.

      “ _Are_ you angry? _Now_ , I mean.”  Sherlock had seemed genuinely interested.

      “I _was_ ,” John admitted.  “I _was_ annoyed about…well, look, _this_ is counterproductive.  I was just trying for us to have a nice, peaceable afternoon in the flat instead of sniping at each other.”

      “Sniping?  What do you mean, _sniping_?”

      “I _mean_ ,” John had said, a flash of irritation on his face, “that I was trying to stop arguing with you.”

      “You did stop.  We haven’t argued for _hours_ ,” Sherlock said.  John sighed again. 

      “Well, maybe we haven’t been arguing _out loud_ for several hours, but I’ve still been arguing with you in my head.”

      “Why would you do that?”

      “I have _no idea_ ,” John had cried.  He looked up and rolled his neck, tension evident in his compact frame.   He’d started to stand up, reaching for his mug.

      “So…you’re telling me that, even though we worked out the disagreement—“

      John had straightened, leaving the mug on the table.  “We didn’t _work it out_!  We just stopped fighting about it.”

      “It’s the same thing.”

      “It’s _no_ t the same thing.”

      “It is.”

      John had leaned over, his palms flat on the table in front of him.  There was a dangerous glint in his eye.  “It’s not.  I’m _telling_ you—it’s _not_ the same thing.”

      “Oh.”

      John’s eyebrows had gone up.  He’d learned to read Sherlock better in the months since they’d lived together, and “oh” was often a good sign.  He’d raised his own eyebrows in response.

      “Oh… _what_?”

      “Nothing,” said Sherlock.  “I mean—it’s nothing.”

      “It might not be nothing to _me_ ,” John had said.  He did not whing, and even managed not to sound aggrieved.  He was merely stating a fact.

      “I was just applying the information you have so thoughtfully provided to previous…that is, I’m thinking back and—“

      “Realizing why people you’d argued with stopped talking to you or answering your calls.”

      “I usually text.”

      “Usually,” John had said, unperturbed.  “But not the point I was making.”

      “The paper.”  The ground felt spongy under Sherlock’s feet and he wanted to get back onto firmer footing.

      “Yes.”  John offered nothing, _damn the man anyway_.

      “So…you’re reading the paper to me…to apologize?  It’s completely unnecess—“

      “ _No_.”  Like a thunderclap.

      “So…you’re _not_ apologizing to me.”

      “No.” 

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Matching t-shirts it is,” John had muttered.  He’d rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience.

      Sherlock drank his coffee sullenly.  Watching him, John suddenly understood _what it was_ that Sherlock _didn’t_ understand. 

      “Hang on,” said John.  “You don’t—that is, you never…you’ve never… _done_ this before, have you?”

      “Done what?” Sherlock snapped.  “You’re talking in riddles, John.”

      But instead of reacting to Sherlock’s temper with his own, John’s eyes widened for a split second and then his expression shifted almost imperceptibly.  The ghost of a smile played about John’s mouth and he reached for his tea, hoping to disguise it.

      “There now—what are you smiling about?” Sherlock demanded.  “Did I say something funny?”

      “No,” John had said, no longer trying to hide the smile.  “No.  Not funny.  Not...I’ve just worked out…that is, I’ve just _deduced_ something.”

      “Yes?”  Impatient, but _needful_ , too.

      “I’m just realizing that you probably _don’t_ understand what I’m talking about.”

      Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away.

      “Sherlock—look. Haven’t you, well, I know you have.  Let me see how…  Okay—do you remember the time Lestrade got angry with you—“

      “Which time?”

      “About the Pine-Scented Cleaner Murderer.”

      “Of course.  He went on about it.”

      “Yes, _yes_ he did,” John admitted.  “But he was annoyed.  You let him run around following up leads that weren’t necessary when all the time—but I digress.  I know you remember he was angry.”

      “He stopped answering my texts for a bit.”  John took this admission—or recognition, _whatever_ —as a good sign.

      “Stopped speaking to you for a bit, also.  Wouldn’t call you for a few days.”

      “He called when he needed me.”

      “Yes.  He did.  But it took a bit, didn’t it, for things to get okay between you?”

      Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “He was pissy for a bit but he got over it.”

      “He _forgave_ you.”

      “For what?”

      “For being a complete asshole,” John said firmly.

      “Ridiculous.  I wasn’t any different than I normally am,” Sherlock protested.

      John let out a short bark of laughter.  “Yes.  _That_.  Exactly.”

      John was able to gauge the effectiveness of his explanation by the curl of Sherlock’s lip.  The detective made a sound somewhere between a growl and a hum.  Also a good sign.

      “You’re saying Lestrade wouldn’t call me in and didn’t want to do things for me—“

      “Or _with_ you,” John interjected.

      “Because we’d had a…a _row_?”

      “And?”

      “And that’s why, when he got _over_ it—“

      “ _Forgave_ you.”

      “Fine.  _Forgave_ me, he invited me out for a pint afterward.”  He looked at John for confirmation.  “Is that right?  He was trying to tell me he still wanted to be, well….”

      “Let’s go with _friendly_ ,” John said resignedly _._   It was as close as he thought they were likely to get.

      “Interesting.”  Sherlock had steepled his fingers and was bumping them against his lips thoughtfully.

      “Do you mean to say…?”  John stopped, frowning, his eyebrows coming low over his eyes.  He shifted his feet, as though trying to think how to approach this on foot instead of conversationally. “You and Mycroft.”  John had a talent for asking a question without asking one.

      “Yes.”  Sherlock was working hard to sound bored, when John was pretty certain he was _not_ bored—just uncomfortable.

      “When you two argued, how did you…that is…hmm.”

      “Yes, we argued.  We argue.  What _about_ it?”

      “How did you…were you…what happened when the arguing was over?”

      “I don’t understand.”  Sherlock’s voice was flat and defensive.  Normally, he would prefer a beating before admitting he didn’t know something, but Sherlock had no hope of out-bluffing John Watson on matters of interpersonal communication and there was the possibility that he might learn something new if he listened.  He listened.

      “When you and Mycroft had arguments—I know you did, _all_ siblings do, Harry and I tried to annihilate each other on a weekly basis—what, um, you know, _tell_ me what happened when an argument was over.”

      Sherlock just _looked_ at him.  John sighed and rubbed his temple, which was suddenly throbbing.  If he was hoping to _mend_ an argument, pissing Sherlock off by bringing up his brother _might_ not have been the best tack.  He paced in a tight circle and returned to the table.

      “Um….”  Sherlock was doing that thing he did where he narrowed his eyes and it felt like you had a laser pointed at your forehead. 

      “Sherl…?”

      “What do you mean,” Sherlock had asked carefully, “when an argument was _over_?”

      John’s patience was a little worn, but this stopped him in his tracks.  He looked at Sherlock, his eyebrows climbing.  “When you…after you, um, work out your differences and get back on good terms….”  Sherlock was staring at him woodenly, and John trailed off.

      John looked at Sherlock. 

      Sherlock looked back. 

      It took a moment, but when the light hit, it was blinding.                                            

      “You’ve never patched… _hang_ on.  You mean to say…that is… _hell_ , Sherlock.”

      “What?  I speak several languages but I am having a bit of trouble following—“

      “Shut up.”  He walked away from the table, then back.  “Bloody _hell_ ,” John said, awe in his voice.  “You’ve never patched up—not once, have you?  You’ve never successfully…I mean, jeez, Sherlock.”  There was something in John’s voice, some _catch_ that fascinated Sherlock and alarmed him at the same time.

      “What are you going on about?” Sherlock asked, but there was none of the usual bravado in his voice.  Instead, he looked wary and confused.

      John sat down suddenly at the table and leaned forward, peering at his flat mate intently.  John opened his mouth to speak, shut it with a click and wiped a hand over his face.  He looked at Sherlock for a long time—so long in fact that Sherlock stirred, uncomfortable.  There was a play of emotions over John’s face—little fits and starts of feeling that Sherlock couldn’t even begin to catalog.  It was a foreign language with no rhyme or reason and it both baffled and captivated him.  John opened his mouth again, closed it, then took a quick breath and held it for a moment.

      “I…trying to think how to say this—“

      “Obviously.”

      “Shut up.”

      Sherlock rolled his eyes.

      “Stop rolling your eyes at me,” John snapped.  “You’re not _twelve_ , and _I’m not Mycroft_!”

      That was, in fact, _not at all_ what John meant to say, but the more he thought about it, it was _exactly_ what he meant to say.  Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated—fury on his face and in his bearing.  He pushed back abruptly from the table and stood.

      “Of _course_ you’re not Mycroft!” he gritted.  “For one thing, you _live_ here.  For another, you’re not a complete _pratt_ all the time, so I hardly think—”

      “Friends make up, Sherlock.  Friends _apologize_.”  John was looking at him with something undefinable in his eyes, and whatever it was, it was sapping his rage.  The anger was still seething beneath the surface, bubbling like lava beneath his skin, but none of it seemed to be directed at John.  Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying to keep what he was thinking from bursting out of his mouth.

      “Look—your big brother treated you like you were a waste of space—“

      “ _Treats_ me.”  There barely seemed to be enough room between Sherlock’s teeth to get the words out.

      “Yes.  Right.  He was a bastard— _is_ a bastard _—_ but it doesn’t follow that everyone will be like that.”

      “Mycroft was remarkable adept at pointing out my faults, which—according to him, are legion.”

      “Well, he’s right about that,” John said absently.  “But, look—I know he messed with you every chance he got—”

      “Still does,” Sherlock muttered.

      “Yes,” John admitted.  “But when…when _friends_ screw up and say stupid things—“

      “I don’t _say_ stupid things.”

      “Yes.  You do.  You’re just too _stupid_ to know it.”

      “I—“

      “You _are_.  Trust me on this—I’m right.”

      “Fine.  You’re _right_.” 

      Amazing how someone so insensitive to the feelings of others could be so easily wounded—or _pretend_ to be.  John let it go for the time being.

      “When _friends_ mess up and do stupid things, they try to _fix_ things—they try to make them right.”  He took in a deep breath.  “Look—I said some things earlier about you being—“

      “A restless, annoying, heartless prick—“

      “Don’t forget inconsiderate,” John said, unperturbed.

      “—and an _inconsiderate_ jerk,” Sherlock flung.  “And I said you were a fussy, uninspired—“

      “Right.  Got it.  I think we’ve already established that we can both be complete dicks.  Moving _on_.”

      “To what?”

      “Come again?”

      “Moving on to _what_?” Sherlock snapped.  “What are you trying to say?”

      “That we’re _friends_ , damn you.  That’s… _that’s_ what I’m trying to say.  And I don’t want to argue with you anymore.  I’m sorry.  You were an ass, but so was I.  I was just _looking_ for an argument because I had a row with—“

      “I know.”  Sherlock’s voice was very soft.  _Somehow_ , he managed not to explain to John _how_ he knew.  “So, you won’t be seeing her anymore?”

      “ _No_.”  Like a rifle shot.

      “She _was_ rather dull.  Far too tame for—”

      “Sherlock, I’m _warning_ you—“

      “Just saying.  So you could…accompany me on a little experiment I’m conducting later?  It’s after your clinic hours today.”

      “How do you know it’s—“

      “Because I _scheduled_ it after your clinic hours today.”

      John had gone still.  He was looking at Sherlock, his expression hard to read.

      “You scheduled it after my clinic hours because….”  John was looking at him.  There was obviously a correct answer here, and Sherlock groped for it.

      “Because I…because I _want_ you to come.”

      “Close.”

      “Because you _like_ to come.”

      “Better.”  John looked at him, his eyebrows knitting together, for a long moment, then he flashed a quick grin and looked away.  “See?  You _do_ get this.”

      “Get _what_?” Sherlock asked, and John began to laugh.

 

Standing at the edge of his bed, looking at the laundry—neatly folded, two creases to his shirts—Sherlock thought about _that_ conversation, and thought about the food that was waiting in the kitchen now.  He tried to apply prior knowledge to current events, but it wouldn’t quite match up.  John seemed to be making peace, but _he_ had been in the wrong.  He dressed slowly, thoughtfully, trying to work out how best to proceed.

      He was quiet as he emerged, and when he came round the kitchen door John looked up as he did and they both looked away.

      “Right then,” said John.  “There’s food.”

      Sherlock sat and looked at his plate and tried not to dive headfirst into it.

      “Thank you,” he said, and though he meant them the words came out stiff.  He looked up quickly and found John was looking at him.

      “Sherlock—about what happened with the Major—“

      “Yes, sorry about that.”

      John caught himself before his jaw dropped open in surprise, but his eyes still flared wide, staring.  “Come again?”

      “I shouldn’t have been berating the client.”

      “Yes…true.”  John seemed doubtful.  This was certainly going too easy.

      “But he was being so completely annoying,” Sherlock said quickly.  “I know you said—“

      “Forget what I said.  I… _look_ , I was out of line.”

      Sherlock shook his head, speared a sausage and shoved it—whole—into his mouth.  John had been relieved to see that Sherlock’s company manners were not completely ingrained.  It might have made sharing a flat with him unbearable.  “No—you were quite accurate.”

      “That’s usually more _your_ line.”

      “Yes.”  Sherlock seemed more subdued than usual.

      “Anything going on?  I mean, anything you want to, you know, talk about?”

      “I’m working on a blog entry about the viscosity of entrails that have been frozen compared to entrails which have not.”

      “Not what I was talking about,” said John, deliberately not looking at the plate of gleaming sausages.

      “Oh.  Nothing comes to mind.”

      “Then what was with the three-day funk?  You’re working on some things for your…for Mycroft.”

      Sherlock waved his hand as though dispelling smoke.  “Tedious,” he said.  “Lots of bother but nothing to sink my teeth into.”  He punctuated his words with an enormous bite of toast and his eyes looked wistful.  “Sometimes…sometimes I wish I still smoked.”

      John put his elbow on the table and his hand on his fist, looking at Sherlock.  He smiled.  “Liar.  You _always_ wish you still smoked.”

      Sherlock cleared his throat and forked up a huge piece of fluffy omelet, strings of cheese dripping off the end.  He opened his mouth and poked in a tomato wedge. 

      “Starving, were you?”

      “You know my methods.”

      “Yes—starve yourself for days and then eat everything in the cupboard.”

      “This is better than raiding the cupboard, John.”

      “I should hope so.”

      Things were easy between them, suddenly, but Sherlock had never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie. 

      “You did my laundry.”

      John looked away.  “I threw in a few things when I did my own.”

      “I—yes.  Thank you.  I was expecting I might have to make use of the sheet again.”

      “And now you know _why_ ,” John said, but he was smiling.  Sherlock was obviously trying to get something out, so John tried hard to wait.  They were neither one any good at this—except when they were _spectacular_ at it.

      Sherlock laughed, then sobered and took a sip of the second cup of perfect coffee that had been perched by his plate.  Just the way he liked it.  The coffee seemed to decide him.

      “Here now—I was wrong, but _you’re_ being nice to _me_.”

      “What—you don’t _like_ it?”

      “No, it’s—“

      “Because—trust me—I can go back to being a bleeder any time you like.”

      “And probably will,” Sherlock muttered, but they were both smiling.  “No, I’m serious.  I don’t understand.”  His pale eyes were fixed on his friend’s face, looking to him for guidance.  They had both got used to John being the moral compass for both of them.

      John got up and went to the stove, turned off the burners that were on and then sat back down, wiping his hands on his corduroys as he did so.  He cleared his throat once, twice, then coughed discreetly.

      “Any time now,” Sherlock said.

      “Shut up.”

      “Just saying….”

      “Just _stop_ saying.  Just eat.”

      “I—“

      “Sherlock, so help me.  If you _want_ me to turn back into a bounder—“

      “No.”

      The silence fell awkwardly between them, and they _both_ ate for a moment.  The food was good, _really_ good, so it was not hard to do it justice.  They passed the bread and jam and tomatoes and sausages around until there were none left, then John pushed his plate back.

      “You don’t understand why I’m being nice to you.”

      “John, that’s not what…I know that’s what I _said_ , but I’m…”

      “Right.  Well.”  He cleared his throat again.  “You _were_ a rotter to Major Patel.  It’s a good thing I’m not active duty anymore or I’d have been bounced down to 2 nd Lieutenant.”  He smiled humorlessly, but Sherlock nodded gravely instead.

      “That _is_ a good thing,” he murmured.

      “But if you can locate his—”

      “Already found it,” Sherlock announced.

      “You—what?  When?  You know where he left it?”

      “He didn’t _leave_ it.  It was _pinched_.”  The last word came out like a pop.

      “Pinched?  By who?  And who would _want_ it?  It’s not like it was valuable.”

      “It’s not—not in any monetary sense, but it’s meaningful to him.”

      “So…we’re looking for someone who would want to take something…wait.  You said you knew… _what_ do you know?  Do you know where it is?”

      “His brother took it.”

      “His _brother_?  Why?  What possible reason—”

      Here, Sherlock shrugged and inclined his head.  John looked a question at him, but he shook his head.  “Old grudge.”  There was an edge of…something in his voice that caught John’s ear.

      “How did you know?”

      “He told me, in so many words.  Something important to him goes missing.  He suspects his brother, but doesn’t _want_ it to be his brother, so he—”

      “So he hired _us_ to find his key fob, to prove…wait.  Hold on.  He hired us to prove his _brother_ did it?”

      Sherlock’s expression was hard to read.  “No,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble of sound, as though the words were rolling around in his chest instead of coming out of his mouth.  “He hired us to prove his brother _didn’t_ take it.”

      “Now _I_ don’t understand.”

      “One mystery at a time, John,” Sherlock sighed.  “He hired us so that he could go on believing that his brother didn’t do it, that his brother wouldn’t _do_ something like that.”

      “They _why_ did he—”

      “You were angry at me for pushing on the Major about whether or not he was mistaken about when he saw it last.  I _was_ rather hard on him, but I needed to know if he had a decent story and would stick to it.  The reason he was so _insistent_ about when he’d last had it was because that was after—”

      “After his brother had last visited.  I see.”  John leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.  “So… _what_ are you going to _tell_ him?”

      “It depends.  It depends on what the brother has to say for himself.  If he knows we’re on to him, he might return it, pretend to _find_ it at his brother’s place.”

      “And if he doesn’t?”

      “If he doesn’t, then I’ll return the Major’s money and tell him I can’t help him.”

      John stared, then shook his head.  “You’re going to lie to him?”

      “Probably,” Sherlock said.  He looked at his flat mate levelly.  “Surely you know by now that I don’t have a problem with stretching the truth.”

      “But doesn’t he want to know that his brother would do something like this?”

      Sherlock’s voice was very quiet.  “Would you?”

      It was still in the flat for a moment, then John nodded.  “Not one for the blog,” he said.

      “No.  Not one for the blog.”

      John stood up and began to put dishes into the sink.  Sherlock stood up and started to carry his plate to the sink, but John reached to take it from him.

      “I’ve got it.”

      Sherlock held on to the plate, staring at John with a frown on his face.  “You don’t have to be nice to me when I’m in the wrong.”

      John tugged the plate away, and though his expression was neutral, his eyes were merry.  “I don’t _have_ to be nice to you at all.  We’re friends.”

      This time, when Sherlock smiled, the expression made wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.  “True, that,” he said, and went to call Mycroft.

 

***FIN***


End file.
